


Trial of Strength

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Les Misérables (Movie 1952)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-02 02:22:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4042078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert's eyes are watching him like a hawk ready to strike, and suddenly Robert is reminded of that time in the pottery when he lost an arm-wrestling match to a stranger and his heart along with it. This, too, is a trial of strength, one that Javert is expecting him to lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trial of Strength

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tcwordsmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tcwordsmith/gifts).



> Thank you so much to E for encouragement and reassurance. Hope you'll enjoy!

His most urgent errands disposed of, Robert returns to the factory, hoping he will find it empty and ready to be tidied. But the lights are on, and from inside he can hear noises of crates being emptied, voices shouting angrily. It is long past midnight: Inspector Javert was not so quick to arrive with reinforcements as he might have wished. A thorough man, the Inspector, but sometimes that is not enough, Robert thinks, taking a pinch of snuff. From the occasional chance meetings at the tobacconist's he knows it is a vice he shares with Javert, amusingly enough.

After twenty minutes or so, Javert comes stomping back out, fury in his every movement. "Enough of this," he hisses, halting in front of Robert, his eyes dark and glaring in the moonlight. "Where have you hidden him?"

Robert holds out the snuff box for him. Javert ignores it. Robert takes a new pinch. "Sorry?"

"Don't play games with me," Javert snarls. "Do you even know who it is you are hiding?"

"I haven't the faintest idea." 

In some ways, Robert thinks, it is even true. He has never pushed or pried, never demanded any answers beyond what Madeleine has given him, unbidden. But he would be lying to himself if he did not acknowledge his own mirth at seeing Javert seethe, his hands twitching as if he longs to seize Robert by the throat and shake him. 

"You," Javert begins, then takes a deep breath. "You, Monsieur, are hindering the police in doing our work. I suggest you change your mind, for your own good. Now. You are certainly aware, are you not, that your precious Monsieur le maire is an escaped convict? A parole breaker? Certainly you are aware," he says, voice low and dangerous, "that his name is not Madeleine at all?"

Javert's eyes are watching him like a hawk ready to strike, and suddenly Robert is reminded of that time in the pottery when he lost an arm-wrestling match to a stranger and his heart along with it. This, too, is a trial of strength, one that Javert is expecting him to lose. Law and order bearing down upon him with all its terrible might that almost broke the most powerful man Robert ever knew. The prospect of becoming a criminal in turn, arrested for aiding a fugitive from the law. It is enough to make the hardiest of men quail. 

Except that Javert cannot prove a thing.

"I have nothing to do with this," he says with a shrug. Inwardly he grins, imagining the scene at the hospital, Javert's terrible fury at being overpowered. Ah, but is it fury only? From the way the inspector's eyes have been following Madeleine, Robert is not so sure. It would worry him, save for the fact that the mayor has never shown a hint of interest in return. On the contrary, if there ever has been any emotion in Madeleine's voice or eyes at the mention of Javert's name, it is a restrained, guarded fear. Which is worrisome enough, but in a less shameful, more selfless way. Then again, Robert is but a man. 

"Nothing to do with this," Javert echoes. "The mayor's lapdog, his most trusted friend. Nothing to do with his ruse, nothing to do with his escape. And you expect me to believe that."

"Believe it or not." Robert wonders if he should be offended at Javert's description. Well, it is true enough, save for the fact that he has never been in Madeleine's lap, as much as he might have wished it. "You are a patient man, Inspector. You said as much earlier. Surely you don't need me to discover the truth?" 

Javert's jaws clench as if around some imaginary prey. For a moment, Robert wonders if he is going to hit him, or perhaps summon his men and have Robert arrested. It would be on thin grounds, but he suspects that when it comes to Madeleine, Javert is not entirely rational.

But after a moment, Javert simply turns away from him. "Thomas!" he shouts into the house. "Fournier! We are done here. To the station-house, now. And you," he says in clipped tones, turning back to Robert, "should go home at once, if you have an ounce of wit in your head. Don't think for a moment I haven't got my eyes on you."

"Goodnight, Inspector," Robert says, watching him leave with a pity that is perhaps misplaced, but which he nevertheless can afford. _It's not so bad,_ he thinks with a smile. _He bested you too. Might as well get used to it._

 

***

 

The first thing Robert notices is his friend's smile. The second thing is Cosette's arms around his neck, her lips on his cheek. "We have missed you so much!" she exclaims, pulling back a little to look him in the eye. "Father always said we would go to England to visit you some day, but we never did. And look, here you are instead! And so are we."

"Indeed you are," Robert says affectionately, patting her on the back. The convent has done her no harm from the looks of it; she looks as lovely as a rose in bloom, and that is enough to make him a little suspicious. But when she lets him go so that her father can take Robert's hand between both of his, all his thoughts vanish immediately, and all he can do is clasp his friend's hands in return, and look him in the eye and smile.

Later that night, after Cosette and the housekeeper have gone to bed, they share a bottle of wine in the drawing room that Robert only recently finished furnishing. The walls still lack any decoration, but he thinks nobody will mind; certainly not Cosette, who will then have the chance to do with them as she pleases. The armchairs are comfortable, which matters more. He leans back, cradling his glass, and gazes at the man in front of him.

"Would you still have me call you Madeleine?" he asks softly, because the wine and the warmth and the company have relaxed them both, and it may not be the worst moment to ask. "I know you are Fauchelevent to the world now. Before you left, you told me your old name: Jean Valjean." The small flinch does not escape him. "However, I have always told you the past does not matter. No matter your name, I will call you friend."

"You are a good man, Robert," Madeleine says. He meets Robert's eyes and smiles in turn, a little shy. "You may call me what you please. However, the last person to use the name of Jean Valjean was of the police. You and he could not be more different." 

Robert has to chuckle at that. "I should hope so," he says, and refills their glasses. The warmth within him blossoms and spreads; he thinks that right here, right now, he could not wish for anything more in this world. Even so, he remembers the intensity of Javert's gaze, and he wonders if he and the inspector really are so different when it comes down to it.

 

***

 

Luckily the doctor is still there as Valjean stumbles through the door, carrying a soaking wet body over his shoulder.

"He jumped," he pants, lying down his burden on the nearest couch. "Swallowed a lot of water. I don't know if it's too late."

"Let me see," the doctor says, leaving Marius's side. Robert follows him. He is not surprised at all to recognise the pasty-pale face as belonging to Inspector Javert.

On the doctor's orders, they take him to a guest room and lay him on the bed. Robert starts to pull off the inspector's wet clothing before Valjean has the chance; he is as gentle as he has to be and no more. Valjean removes the man's boots and then leans against the door, closing his eyes. It strikes Robert how unfathomably tired he must be.

Covering Javert with a blanket, he crosses the room and puts a hand on his friend's shoulder, steering him out into the hallway so the doctor can work in peace. "You should go to bed."

Valjean creaks an eye open with what must be considerable effort. "Someone has to watch over them."

"Cosette will take care of Marius." Robert nods toward the drawing room. "I'll stay here with him." At the responding frown, he has to smile. "I promise I won't do anything foolish. Go on. Otherwise the doctor has to come for you next."

That, finally, has the desired effect. Valjean heaves himself upright, then sways on his feet. "Robert," he says, for a moment looking taken aback by his own weariness. "Are you sure..."

"Always." He gently places both hands on his shoulders. "Off. Or do you need me to undress you as well?"

It is as direct as he can possibly be, disguised in a coward's manner as a joke. Valjean gives him a long look. For a moment it looks like he might say something, and Robert's stomach drops with the exhilarating and terrifying possibilities this moment might hold. But then Valjean sighs, a veil of exhaustion covering his eyes, and Robert finds himself able to breathe again.

He releases him, relieved and sorrowful in equal measure. "Off with you. Sleep well."

After the doctor has left, Robert pulls up a chair at Javert's bedside. He still has no love for the man, but he will be damned if he lets Valjean's sacrifice go to waste. The doctor has prescribed a balm for his bruised ribs, to be applied every morning and night, and Robert has already resigned himself to the task. The thought of Valjean rubbing ointment into his pursuer's skin is not one he cares for; on the other hand, he does enjoy the thought of Javert's reaction at being handled like an infant. "Look how the mighty have fallen," he mutters to himself. 

As if in response, Javert coughs, then moans. The bruised ribs must be paining him; the doctor gave him some laudanum, but it might not have been enough. No more than he deserves, Robert thinks mercilessly. Was there ever laudanum in the galleys?

Another cough, another moan. Javert's eyelids quiver, then open to reveal a dark confused glare. "Where am I?" he rasps.

Robert takes the glass on the nightstand and forces him to drink. Javert swallows automatically, and Robert waits until he's sunk back down on the pillow before saying, "Your own personal Hell, I expect."

A tired, dazed blink. "What?" He coughs, then tries again, voice too thick and sluggish to be imperious. "What do you mean?"

"It means," Robert says, putting the glass back on the nightstand, "that you are in the house of the man who saved you. The man who bested you. The man you have hunted, chased, looked for all these years. He is better than you, better than us both. You will never be able to repay him for what he has done for you. He has saved your life and you know it; that's why you jumped. He'd have gone with you to the galleys, but you won't take him there. You will stay in his house and eat his food and sleep in his bed until you can walk again, and then you will forget that you ever tried to arrest a man named Jean Valjean. Because if you do, that will be the eternal proof that you are damned. But if you don't, you will walk the Earth with the rest of us mere mortals, we who care more about each other than the Law, we who want what we cannot have but learn to be happy even so. But will you ever be able to do that, Inspector? That's what I'm wondering."

Javert's eyes have slipped shut. Robert stops, wondering where all those words came from. He has been wanting to say them for a long time, he supposes, probably years. 

"No matter," he murmurs, shaking his head. Javert has fallen asleep again, as well he should. Robert has to smile at what awaits him when he wakes up, when the full impact of what he owes Jean Valjean bears down on him. Perhaps, he thinks, his friend will have two lapdogs now.


End file.
